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She wiped tears of frustration from her eyes. Grit and soot streaked her hands. Now what could she do? She ought to find her way back to the main thoroughfare. If she hurried, she might find Becker’s tavern and the inns around it. But the skies were darkening, her clothes were filthy, and she didn’t think she could face an interview tonight.
She found a drier patch of ground, where the fence tilted inward. The satchel helped only a little. Cold mud soaked into her skirt, and the heavy salt tang mixed with the reek of urine. Ilse curled into a tight ball and closed her eyes. “Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she whispered. A few more words came back to her. “Komen mir de strôm.
The air thickened around her. A whiff of green, like the rich tang of pine, washed away the alleyway’s stinks, leaving only its own fresh scent, reminding her of the fresh cold winds of Melnek, blowing down from the mountains. For once, the memory of home did not hurt. Gradually her muscles unlocked, and the terror bled away. She felt as though a vast hand cupped her inside it, keeping her safe. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I will find work. And a home. I will make my own life.
Overhead, a pigeon cooed. A dog whined, then fell silent. With the sky turning dark, and a breeze fingering her hair, she slept.
* * *
SHE WOKE TO the early-morning sunlight. Rain had fallen during the night, and gray clouds promised more that morning. Ilse stood and brushed the mud from her clothes. Working by feel, she untied her braid and worked out the tangles, then plaited it neatly. After some consideration, she decided to abandon her satchel and the few remaining items it contained. It would only make her look shabbier than she already did.
Several streets over, she came upon a market square with a fountain. She dunked her head in the fountain and splashed more water over her face. Yesterday’s last meal with Nela and her cousins was only a memory, and she felt the first gr
owl of hunger. Perhaps a new employer would feed her before he set her to work.
First she had to find the places Gregor and Nela named. The market square was nearly empty, but a few vendors were already at work setting up their stalls. One, an older man dressed in a worn jersey and stained trousers, eyed Ilse suspiciously as she approached. “Don’t want any,” he said gruffly, and turned away, dismissing her presence.
Ilse paused, her cheeks going hot. “I’m not what you think.”
The man shrugged and continued to arrange his stacks of baskets and cups and bowls. The baskets were woven from reeds; the cups and bowls were carved from a dark wood. Plain wares for plain folks.
She took a deep breath. “Please. I’m looking for work. But I’m a stranger to the city, and I’ve lost my way. Could you help me?”
The man stared at her, hands on hips. “Long way from home?”
She nodded.
“What about family?”
“Not anymore.”
“What kind of work?”
His voice had lost its first hard edge. She met his gaze, which was neutral. “Kitchen work, scrubbing floors, anything,” she said. “I’ve some places to look, but no guarantees.”
He regarded her silently. She read doubt in his expression, but all he finally said was, “You’re a pretty girl, even underneath that dirt. Maybe too pretty. And you come from money—I can tell by your speech.”
“Why should that matter? I need the work.”
“I believe you. But others might not. They might think what I did.”
She made a helpless gesture. “It’s a chance I have to take.”
In the end, he gave her a roll from his breakfast and directions to Becker’s tavern. He also told her where to find Tiralien’s better neighborhoods. “If you don’t have luck with the taverns, try the mansions near the governor’s palace. They always want new hands in the kitchen or stables.”
Within the hour she found the place. She peeked inside, where two girls were sweeping the floors, supervised by a dull-faced older woman. No customers. No sign of Nela or her cousins. Disappointed, Ilse withdrew and continued to the inn Gregor had mentioned.
She came inside the entryway, treading softly. A tall gray-haired man popped out from a side room. “Who are you? What do you want here?”
“I was looking for work. I heard you wanted a chambermaid.”
The man surveyed her clothes and face. He shook his head. “Sorry, but you won’t do.”
She drew a sharp breath at his tone. “Why not?”
“For any number of reasons, girl, but first because you aren’t a chambermaid—I can tell by the way you talk. Besides,” he pointed at her clothes, grimacing, “I run a clean inn, not a pigsty.”
Ilse rubbed her hands over her skirt. “I’ll work hard.”
